


Unavoidable Accomplice

by tiniestawoo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (not between the main pairing), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jackson Whittemore, Canon-Typical Violence, Coincidences, D/s undertones, Doctor Jackson Whittemore, Dr. Jackson Whittemore, F/M, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, So Much Snark, Strength Kink, Top Stiles Stilinski, Undercover Missions, Undercover Stiles Stilinski, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/pseuds/tiniestawoo
Summary: Okay, so, bullet previously existing in his shoulder was removed, great.Hospitalized, inconvenient.Dr. Whittemore, huh, wonder if they’re related to Jackson.Mr. Sommerfeld,Fuck.--Or the one where Stiles is undercover, and Jackson is perpetually confused about exactly what is going on.
Relationships: Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore
Comments: 26
Kudos: 650
Collections: Stiles Stilinski





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work would not be possible without the cheerleading and assistance of [impractical-matters](https://impractical-matters.tumblr.com) who held my hand through this whole thing and also helped me give it a title!!!
> 
> I'm actually pretty proud of this one! 
> 
> Any typos that got missed are definitely mine!

“…so, luckily, the bullet did remarkably little damage. He should feel better in a matter of weeks!” A cheerful, unfamiliar voice was the first thing Stiles noticed as he woke up, groggy, worn out, from the anesthesia. “Dr. Whittemore is one of the best young trauma surgeons on the east coast. He’ll be in as soon as Mr. Sommerfeld wakes up to discuss the surgery and his recovery.”

Okay, so, bullet previously existing in his shoulder was removed, great.

Hospitalized, inconvenient.

Dr. Whittemore, huh, wonder if they’re related to Jackson. 

Mr. Sommerfeld, _Fuck._

Stiles was careful not to make it particularly obvious that he was awake, needing to gather himself before his drugged brain could get him into any trouble. If he was checked into the hospital as Miles Sommerfeld, that probably meant that his cover hadn’t been blown. The upside of course was that an unexpected gang shoot out that had absolutely nothing to do with the operation wasn’t going to blow up two and a half years undercover.

The downfall was –

“Miles? Baby? Nancy, his heart rate jumped up.” Yeah. That.

Stiles had to make a conscious effort not to groan audibly. He blinked his eyes open, focusing first on the ceiling before he gently turned his head to look at the woman at his bedside, forcing the corners of his mouth up in a small smile that he hoped made it to his eyes. 

There was nothing _wrong_ exactly with Sofia Federov. She was, as far as daughters of major Russian mob bosses go, a beautiful woman, and remarkably intelligent. She had a quick wit and a good sense of humor and had fallen in love with Stiles’ alter ego fairly quickly, making his integration into the Federov crime family seamless. He was three months out from being done with the operation. Mr. Federov had been slowly trusting Miles, his daughter’s fiancé with more and more responsibilities, which were, of course, all tracked by the FBI. Stiles’ handler had told him just last week that they were going to bring charges in the next few months. (Which was good, because with a wedding scheduled for the beginning of October, things were going to get dicey if they didn’t get Stiles out before then.)

And then he had to go and get shot. 

He opened his mouth but promptly closed it, trying to lick his lips but his mouth felt like sandpaper. The nurse, it seemed, understood, and held a cup of water with a straw up to Stiles’ lips, letting him drink for a minute before pulling it away. “How are you feeling, Mr. Sommerfeld?” 

“Tired, mostly.” Stiles answered, “How long was I out?” 

Sofia squeezed his hand, “You got shot last night, do you remember? They did the surgery first thing this morning to remove the bullet.” 

“It’s fuzzy.” Stiles lied, “Are you okay?” He squeezed her hand back, plastering on the most concerned expression he could fathom. 

“I am now.” She replied, pushing a lock of his hair away from his face. 

A knock sounded from the open door and Stiles looked past Sofia, only to have to consciously school his expression into something neutral. Rafael McCall had drilled him on that one. One day, his expression was going to get him killed if he didn’t get it under control, so Stiles got it under control. “Mr….Sommerfeld?” 

Standing in the door to his room, dressed in blue surgical scrubs with a tablet in his hand, hair trimmed neatly, face clean-shaven, was Jackson Whittemore. Or, apparently, Dr. Jackson Whittemore, as his embroidered scrub top proclaimed. “Yeah.” Stiles said, clearing his throat, “That’s me.” 

Jackson quirked an eyebrow and Stiles tried, with every ounce of eyebrow and eye-based communication he’d ever learned from the Hales or the FBI, to get Jackson to realize how delicate the situation was. “Have we met?”

_Fuck._

“No, I don’t think so.” Stiles said, giving a small, placating smile, “I mean, other than like, an hour ago or whatever. When you dug a bullet out of my shoulder. Does that count as meeting? I’m not sure how you’d define it. Does your patient have to be awake for a doctor to meet them—”

“Miles, I’m sure the doctor has better things to do today than listen to your ramblings.” Sofia gave Stiles a fond smile and leaned over to kiss his cheek, turning back to Jackson, “Sorry, Dr. Whittemore, he’s probably still a little under the influence. He can get rambly sometimes.” 

Jackson flicked his eyes between Stiles and Sofia, clearly amused, “I’m sure he can.” He looked down at the tablet, “Surgery went well. You’re lucky, the bullet basically missed everything important. We pulled it out and sent it off to the police for forensics for you. You’ll need a sling for a week or so until the wound closes up, and once you no longer have pain lifting your arm, you can pretty much consider yourself healed. If it takes longer than a month, I’d probably suggest some physical therapy.” Jackson looked up from the tablet, “Do you have any questions, Mr. Sommerfeld?”

Only a million, but none he could answer right now. “No, thanks. I think you covered just about everything.” Stiles lifted his good hand to squeeze Sofia’s shoulder, “As long as I’m all healed up for the wedding, right babe?” 

Sofia smiled broadly at him, leaning down to kiss his lips briefly, “Definitely. Daddy would be so mad if he spent _that much_ money on this wedding and you ruined it by getting hurt.”

Jackson chuckled quietly to himself and tapped a few things on the tablet. “Well, then, we’ll keep you here until the afternoon so that we’re sure the anesthesia has completely cleared your system, but you should be home by dinner.” He tucked the tablet under his arm and headed out of the room.

Stiles waited until Jackson was just out of the room – but still totally in ear shot for a werewolf – to turn to Sofia, “Could you go home and get me a fresh change of clothes? Maybe take a nap? You look exhausted babe.” 

Sofia – blessedly – agreed, gave Stiles another kiss, and then headed out of the hospital. It only took five minutes for Jackson to return to Stiles’ room, closing the door behind him, and turning to him with narrowed blue eyes. “Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Stiles blinked a few times, “I literally cannot.” He said, “All I can say is _please_ don’t say anything to anyone about the fact that you saw me here. I do not exist right now, do you understand me, Jackson?”

Jackson cocked an eyebrow, “What have you gotten yourself into, St—”

“Shut it.” Stiles said quickly, cutting him off, “Please just…don’t. You do not know me from anywhere. You’re not going to even remember that I was here. You did a surgery on Miles Sommerfeld, who you do not know. Am I clear?” 

Jackson studied him, and Stiles could see the flare of his nostrils, though probably only because he was used to looking for it. “Okay, on one condition.”

Stiles relaxed back against the pillows, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “What?” 

A dangerous smirk made Stiles immediately regret his answer, “When you _can_ tell me, you do so. At a nice restaurant somewhere.” Jackson winked. “Pick somewhere expensive.” 

“A date?” Stiles asked, cocking an eyebrow, “I’m sorry, did Jackson Whittemore just blackmail me for a date?” 

“That’s Dr. Jackson Whittemore to you.” Jackson said, heading out of the room.  
\--

The decision, over ten years ago now, to become a doctor instead of a lawyer or a politician or something like his parents expected had felt easy for Jackson. After the disaster that was his first attempt at becoming a werewolf, and the damage he’d done for Matt and Gerard as the kanima, it felt right to save lives instead of take them. Miami was a beautiful city, and Jackson had been surprised by his residency placement down here, but had fallen in love with it and asked to stay. Last year, he’d been hired full time as an attending trauma surgeon, and he’d finally traded his high rise apartment for a house in the suburbs. 

Being full time at the hospital, and being the youngest full time attending, and one of only two that were single, meant that Jackson got guilted into taking a lot of shifts he’d usually have off. That had been the case last night, when he’d had to cancel his tinder hookup in favor of covering the ER for a few hours for a doctor whose daughter had a dance recital he’d ‘forgotten about.’ As such, Jackson had actually ended up going to bed much earlier than he would have if he’d gotten laid, and woke up the next morning refreshed. 

Running along the boardwalk was a luxury he’d largely given up on after he’d moved away from the beach, but today he drove over, fought for parking, and jogged almost ten miles beside the sand and ocean, thankful for the chance to breathe something other than hospital air. One particularly deep breath, however, brought a scent to him that brought Jackson to a stop, dropping to a seat on the low wall that blocked the beach from the street and looking around. 

A pair of keen brown eyes caught his gaze, and Jackson rolled his, but pushed off the wall to cross the street. Stiles was sat at a covered table outside of a beachfront coffee shop with a laptop in front of him and a small black notebook in his lap. A pen was perched between his lips as he looked away from Jackson’s approaching form to click a few things and then close the laptop. “Y’know.” The words caused Stiles to spit the pen out, “I’ve lived in Miami for three years now, and somehow never saw you, and now I’ve seen you twice in two months.” 

Jackson shrugged, “How’s your shoulder?” He asked, dropping into the seat across from Stiles. “Mr. Sommerfeld.” He rolled his eyes at the name. 

“It’s fine, thanks. I guess my surgeon knew what he was doing.” Stiles had picked the pen back up and was fiddling with it. “Thanks for uh, not saying anything in front of Sofia.” Stiles said vaguely. 

“Your fiance.” Jackson said, reaching across to steal Stiles’ mostly melted frozen coffee, wincing after he took a drink from it. “Jesus is this just sugar?” 

“You don’t get to complain about it when you steal my drink.” Stiles smirked and waved over a waitress, “Can I get another frozen extra sweet mocha cold brew, and uh…” Stiles motioned at Jackson.

Jackson considered the strangeness of the situation and then turned to the waitress with a charming grin, “I’ll take an iced latte, with just a hint of caramel drizzle, please, oh, and a bottle of water.” When she’d walked away, Jackson flicked his eyes back to Stiles, “Is this a date?” 

Stiles snorted, “I don’t know, I was working and you decided to join me. If it is, it’s the least formal date I’ve ever been on.” 

“That’s not a no.” Jackson challenged. 

Stiles pursed his lips, tapping his fingers against the closed lid of his laptop, “I guess it wasn’t.” He raised an eyebrow, “Do you want it to be a date?” 

Jackson considered the question, “If I say it’s a date, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in Miami?” Jackson asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Definitely not.” Stiles said, thanking the waitress when she returned with their drinks, “But, if you want it to be a date, you can tell me how you ended up here, Dr. Whittemore.”

Well, Jackson was never one to pass up an opportunity to talk about himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles loved Miami. As much as he missed his father, and fuck, the friends he hadn’t spoken to in nearly 3 years, he had genuinely enjoyed his time in Florida. His cover (assisted by real world knowledge of languages and international relations) had been that he was an interpreter who had made some contacts that Sergei Federov had been incredibly interested in making the acquaintance of. So, Stiles’ team had strategically placed him in a position of being useful to Sergei, and the fact that Sofia had started to fall for him only helped. 

At first, Stiles had been very against using Sofia, wanting to keep the seemingly clueless daughter out of the danger zone that came with the mob, but that fact, it seemed, had only endeared him to Sergei, who trusted Sommerfeld to keep his princess safe.

Sofia was still at work, the CEO of the shell corporation that laundered most of her father's money when Stiles dropped into a seat at a coffee shop table on the boardwalk, glancing around him before flicking his sunglasses up onto his head. To his back, sipping an iced americano was Rafael McCall. 

“Someone tipped Federov off to the arrest. As far as we know your cover is still intact, but the arrest has to happen tonight.” 

Stiles grimaced, pulling out his phone and pretending to be on it, “And let me guess, no time for me to stage a breakup and get the hell out of dodge?” 

“I’m sure you can get yourself out.” Rafael said, and Stiles heard a slurp as he sipped from his mostly-empty drink. “I’ll ping you as soon as we have Federov in custody. You’re sure the daughter isn’t in on the crime side of things? You’re not just protecting her?” 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “She’s a mark, Raf, not my actual girlfriend.” 

“Do you have one of those we need to talk about? Or a boyfriend? I heard you got coffee with a _very_ familiar doctor.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Of course you heard about that. It’s nothing to worry about. Trust me, if anyone knows how to be discreet, it’s a…” Stiles paused, “Someone like him.” 

“Only you would be on the opposite side of the country and still run into a werewolf.” Rafael sounded tired, and Stiles couldn’t blame him. It had been a long operation. “Stay safe, S. Don’t make me explain to your dad what happened to you.”

“I’ll do my best.” Stiles shrugged and ordered himself lunch. 

\--  
Getting out, it seemed, became much more difficult than he’d expected. At dinner with Sofia, he’d gotten the text from his handler from the blocked number with a codeword that said the mission was complete and he was supposed to extract himself, which he fully intended to do right after dinner, until Sofia had crossed the room and dropped into his lap, grinning down at him with a hungry look. 

“Hey, uh, Sof.” Stiles said, shaking his head free of her hands, resting his own hand on her thighs. He steeled himself for a minute, trying to figure out how exactly to break up with her gently two weeks before their ‘wedding.’ “We need to uh, talk about something.” 

Sofia’s eyes narrowed at him, and she extracted herself from his lap, “The wedding is in two weeks, what could we possibly need to talk about?” 

“I think maybe getting married is going to be a mistake.” Stiles gripped the back of his neck with his hand, aiming for bashful and nervous. At least the nervous part was real.

“Miles.” Her voice had gone dark, a tone that Stiles knew she’d inherited from her father. “What do you mean getting married is going to be a mistake?” 

_Shit._ “I just mean, I’m just getting into the business, y’know. I could have to do some traveling and I want to be able to, I don’t know, be a free man a while longer? I know you’re talking about wanting a baby as soon as the wedding is over and I just...It’s all so fast, y’know.” 

Sofia ran a hand through her hair, “So what do you want then, Miles? To push back the wedding? To wait to have a baby? I don’t get it?” 

Stiles groaned internally, because what he wanted was out of this situation without this level of drama, but he clearly wasn’t going to get it, “I’m seeing someone else.” He looked away for a minute, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you for a few days. I’m sorry, Sofia, I just...I can’t do this with you.” 

Looking away was clearly a bad idea, because the next thing he knew, he’d been gutted with a steak knife and Sofia was storming out of the apartment. Stiles blinked down at the wound, blood blossoming around it, and whispered “Fuck.”

If Stiles was acting at all rationally, he’d have dug out his phone and called McCall and asked for a doctor and an extraction. He was, however, not rational in the slightest, and instead defaulted to an underlying desire to feel safe. It probably spoke volumes about Stiles’ history that being around werewolves made him feel safe, and not scared, but well, he’d had an interesting adolescence. Sue him. 

Werewolves made Stiles feel safe, and hey, he knew where one of those was.  
\--

The worst part of being a werewolf and a doctor was the waiting. Science, actual scientific tests; microbiological reactions and mass spectrometry and cultures, those took time. The worst part about being a creature that operated somewhat outside the laws of science was that sometimes, despite the fact that Jackson could smell the cancer in the seemingly healthy thirty-year-old, the fatal sepsis taking the life of the young woman who’d been brought in unconscious from the woods, or the drugs in the system of the 15-year-old who insisted they’d never touched them, Jackson couldn’t just explain that. He had to wait. 

Sometimes, when the waiting and the smell of blood and death and fear became too much, he’d step outside to breathe in air that even a few miles inland carried the scent of the ocean. 

After spending almost as long as a werewolf as he’d spent as a human, he was fairly accustomed to the scent of blood, but smelling fresh blood _outside_ of the hospital wasn’t normal. Scenting the air again, he turned to the right, following the scent towards the parking garage. Just outside the entrance, he could hear a just-too-slow heartbeat, and labored breathing. Once he was close enough, the underlying scent, beneath the blood and pain, was too familiar for comfort.

Stepping inside and turning, he was faced with the muzzle of a gun, held in the shaky, bloody hand of Stiles Stilinski. “Stiles?” Jackson whispered, dropping to a crouch, batting away the gun with a carelessness only supernatural creatures possessed. 

Stiles took a deep, wheezing breath, and exhaled what almost sounded like a laugh, “Help?” He said, voice strained. 

“What the fuck happened? Let me go get a nurse and a gurney.” Jackson’s hand had found the wound, some kind of puncture to Stiles’ stomach that currently had a bloody T-shirt shoved inside it like a makeshift trauma wound tampon. 

“No.” Stiles hissed, hand clamping down on Jackson’s wrist with surprising force for someone who was literally _bleeding out._ “You can’t take me in there, she’ll find me.”

Jackson stared at the ceiling of the parking garage for a moment, praying to whoever would listen for the patience to deal with this situation, “Who will find you?”

Stiles wheezed in another breath and Jackson, who had subconsciously started counting heartbeats, felt panic rising, “Sofia. You have to take me” Stiles’ head lolled back against the wall as he tried to drag in another breath “take me to” Jackson growled, audibly as the man’s eyes fell closed and he slumped.

“Take you where, Stilinski?” Jackson whispered, laying Stiles on his side and then rolling him onto his back, deft hands checking, as quickly as he could, from head to toe for other wounds, but finding only that dangerously slow heart rate and the puncture wound. Jackson sighed and shook his head, “I’ll just leave California and then all of this law-breaking bullshit I got up to in my youth will quit following me around.” Jackson snorted, scooping Stiles up. “Should have known better.”

Thirty minutes later, Jackson had claimed a rare family emergency, stolen a suture kit, a transfusion kit, a dose of antibiotics, a bag of saline and two liters of O-negative, wrapped the wound on Stiles’ stomach in a compression bandage he’d taken out of an ambulance, and was driving towards his house, wondering not for the first time that evening how exactly he’d gotten here. 

Once he’d gotten Stiles to his house, it had been relatively quick work, all things considered, to get Stiles’ wound closed and run the transfusion line. Stiles had been lucky, again, it would seem. Whatever had caused the wound to his stomach had cut straight through muscle and what surprisingly little fat there was, but managed to miss intestines and organs. 

Jackson googled Stiles’ alias, Miles Sommerfeld, and the name Sofia, and after three spellings, had spent enlightening hour reading news articles and repeating ‘What the fuck’ in increasingly distressed tones. 

_Sofia Federov announces engagement to Miles Sommerfeld, business associate of her father, Sergei Federov. (January)_

_Federov daughter and fiance, Sommerfeld, involved in gang shootout. (July)_

_Sergei Federov arrested on RICO, drug, and human trafficking charges. (Two hours ago)_

_Sofia Federov wanted following discovery of a bloody scene at her apartment. Fiance Miles Sommerfeld currently missing. (One hour ago)_

Jackson sat back, locking his ipad and setting it aside, bringing his hands up to rub his eyes before he looked over at Stiles, who was motionless. Another benefit to having a supernatural doctor was that Jackson didn’t need machinery to tell him that Stiles’ heart was beating a normal rate, and that his breathing had eased up. “What the fuck did you get yourself into, Stiles?” 

\--

Stiles woke to pain. His abdomen felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t help the groan that rolled out of him, startling the body in the chair next to his bed. Stiles blinked, trying to bring the room into focus, but too busy trying to figure out why his abs hurt so goddamn much.

“Oh, shit.” There was a little giggle hidden in the voice, in _Jackson’s_ voice, and then a hand gripped his arm and Stiles drew in a long breath as the pain seeped out of him. His eyes finally started to focus then, first on the hand, golden tan, currently lined with deep black lines he knew were indicative of a werewolf drawing away pain. He followed the hand up and then stared, blinking, at the face.

“Am I dreaming?” Stiles asked, wincing at how fucking dry his mouth was. 

“Do you _usually_ dream about me?” The hand pulled away from his arm and then there was a straw at his lips. Stiles sucked in a few sips of room-temperature water and then rested back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the pain reduced to a manageable level. “In my series of hospital thefts I forgot that pain relief would be a thing you might need, so, I guess you’re stuck with ice and pain drain for now.”

Stiles blinked at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head again, studying Jackson’s face. His eyes couldn’t seem to pull away from the freckles that covered Jackson’s nose. He had _freckles_ , how had Stiles never noticed that? “How did I get here? Where is here?” He was shirtless, and realized that meant probably unarmed, considering his shoulder holster wasn’t strapped to him. “Shit, where is my --”

“Your gun is downstairs, unloaded, with the safety on, in a drawer in my kitchen where it won’t be stumbled upon.” Jackson’s fingers were moving gently around the epicenter of Stiles’ pain, causing him to wince. “It’s a little warm, there could be an infection. I started you on antibiotics about an hour ago, we’ll have to give those time to work.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles said, licking his lips, “Didn’t really answer my first two questions.”

Jackson sat back, rolling his eyes, “I peeled you off the floor of the hospital parking garage, stole from my employer and then brought you back to my home so I could save you from bleeding out.” Jackson looked at Stiles expectantly, “What exactly was your plan with that one, _Miles_?” 

Stiles groaned and threw an arm over his face, “I wish I could say I had a plan at all. I knew if I went to a hospital, it would eventually get out that I was there, and I’m supposed to disappear, not make the evening news.” 

Jackson blinked, shaking his head, “So you went to a hospital anyway?” 

Stiles moved his arm to look at Jackson, “The hospital wasn’t exactly the goal.” Stiles couldn’t help his eyes flicking to Jackson’s lips and back, “I’m a special kind of fucked up that means in a crisis I apparently run to the first werewolf I can find.” 

Jackson snorted, but hadn’t looked away, “Well, congrats, your dumb ass survived, again.” 

“Great.” Stiles said, groaning as he shifted himself up to a seat against the headboard. Jackson’s hand found his arm again, drawing the pain away. “Can I use your phone, I need to call McCall.”

“You need to call Scott?” 

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to resist the laughter that would inevitably hurt. “No, I need to call Scott’s dad. My FBI undercover contact. The person who is going to give me hell for getting myself stabbed _after_ my assignment ended.” 

“Who stabbed you?” Jackson asked, frowning.

“Sofia. Miles’ fiance. Ex-fiance, I guess. I think we can call the wedding officially off.” Stiles shook his head. “Listen, I’d love to chat, but if I don’t get ahold of Raf, they’re going to think she actually killed me, and she’s got some entitlement issues but shouldn’t go down for a murder she didn’t actually commit. If she promises to leave me alone I might even skip the ‘assault with a deadly weapon’ charges.”

Jackson held out an unlocked iphone, “Be my guest.” He hesitated for just a minute, “Are we in danger here?”

Stiles paused with his hand also on the phone, thinking, “I hope not?” 

Jackson snorted and released his grip on the phone, “What does ‘I hope not’ mean?”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow of his own, “I had to get out of there somehow, so I told Sof I was seeing someone else.” Stiles caught his lip between his teeth, “We’re safe as long as nobody saw us get coffee.”

“Do people usually track your movements?” Jackson asked, frowning.

Stiles’ fingers hovered over the send key on the phone screen, “Jackson, today is the first time in three years I’ve been somewhere and the FBI or the Federovs didn’t know where I was.” He gave Jackson a grim smile and then hit send and put the phone up to his ear.

Jackson couldn’t mask his surprise at that, but sat back to let Stiles make his phone call. 

An hour later, a pair of men in heavy body armor arrived at Jacksons, bundled Stiles into the back seat of an SUV and sped away.


	3. Chapter 3

Shaken by Stiles’ sudden appearance and subsequent departure, Jackson found himself sitting on the guest bed Stiles had been in, sniffing at the pillow occasionally and letting himself remember what life had been like back in Beacon Hills before the supernatural had invaded their lives. Jackson always assumed that if or when he ran into anyone from Beacon Hills, it would probably be either Derek or McCall himself, and it was going to involve the supernatural. He would not have predicted that it would be the result of an undercover FBI operation and Stiles Stilinski of all people. 

Jackson had just gotten to sleep when he woke to the sound of movement outside his house; tires in his driveway, the crunch of boots on the ground, a skittering heart beat. “MILES.” Ah shit, that voice. “MILES I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.” He sat up in bed, shaking his head. The person pounded on his door, and Jackson realized he had a lot less time than he’d like to prepare for this particular interaction. He grabbed for sweatpants, unplugged his phone from its charger and dialed the last number. 

As soon as McCall picked up, Jackson hissed into the phone, “Sofia is at my house, please come remove her at your earliest convenience.” Without giving McCall a chance to respond, he turned the volume down as far as he could, left the call running, slipped the phone into his sweatpants and headed downstairs.

Jackson opened the door to see Sofia Federov, red-faced, puffy-eyed and furious with her hand raised mid-knock. “Can I help you?” 

“You’re that doctor. Whittemore.” Sofia said, sniffling. “It has to be you. It would make sense, you could have helped him and you’re the only one Miles has seen recently. I’ve talked to everyone I can and it has to be you.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow, “I’m sorry, who are you?” He asked, yawning.

“I’m Sofia Federov.” She spat her last name like a weapon, like it was supposed to make Jackson fear her, and, if he was anyone else, it might have. “You’re fucking my fiance -- ex-fiance.” 

Jackson snorted, “I’m not fucking anyone currently. I’m at the door with you. I’d like to be fucking someone but I’m a bit short on options right now.” He flicked a deliberate eye over her, “Though, if you’re offering.” Sofia reached up to slap him, but Jackson effortlessly caught her wrist in his hand, “There’s no need to get violent, sweetheart, I know no means no.”

“Why would he want to be with an asshole like you?” Sofia asked, her breath hitching in her chest, genuine sorrow now, instead of the bravado she’d displayed until now. “I was good to him.”

Jackson studied her, deciding to throw her a bone, “We were...friends in high school.” Friends felt like both an inaccurate and incomplete term, but 11pm in suburbia was not the time to tell a life story involving werewolves, kanimas and creepy old men. “I guess, when I saw him at the hospital, it just rekindled something?” Was Jackson talking about himself or Stiles? The lines were suddenly very blurry.

Sofia sighed and her hand went slack in Jackson’s grip so he released it. “My dad got arrested, now my fiance left me.” She ran a hand through her hair and gripped at it, tight to her scalp. “Am I a bad person?” 

Jackson wanted to make a pithy comment about not being that kind of doctor, but instead he just said, “I don’t know you well enough to answer that, but I can assure you that Miles isn’t here right now. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Jackson could hear sirens coming in the quiet night just sooner than Sofia did, and that gave him barely enough time to prepare for whatever her reaction to them was going to be. As soon as the sirens hit her ears, she reached for her hip, probably for a gun, but Jackson wrestled both of her arms behind her back, spinning her so they both faced the two suited men walking up the driveway, guns drawn. 

“Always with the guns.” He groaned. “You can put the weapons away, gentlemen.” Jackson vaguely recognized one of them, a tall, dark-haired man with a slightly crooked nose. “Sofia’s not a threat to anyone, right?” He said, winking over her shoulder. 

“Except the man she stabbed.” The unfamiliar agent scoffed as he cuffed Sofia and headed towards the car with her in tow, leaving Rafael McCall at Jackson’s door step. 

“Quick thinking on your part, calling me.” McCall said, nodding, “And for not blowing his cover.”

“And saving his life.” Jackson said, rolling his eyes, “Is he somewhere safe?” 

McCall tilted his head to the side, studying Jackson for longer than he was comfortable with, “Yeah. He’s gonna be fine, thanks to you. If you could continue to keep this secret, we’d really appreciate it. My office will be by sometime soon with a nondisclosure agreement.” 

“I don’t really know anything.” Jackson said, shrugging, “Other than who he really is.” 

McCall shrugged one shoulder, “That’s already too much. I should have known that Stilinski would have found himself a werewolf wherever he went.” The older man turned to leave, but stopped and turned back, “Is the number you called me on a good one for you? I can pass it along, if you’d like.”

Jackson considered for a moment, but then nodded, “Thank you, Agent McCall.”

\--

Stiles stared down at his new phone, the first one that was actually his, registered to his real name, in three years. Rafael had been limited in the information he could share over the years, but he’d consistently let both Noah and Scott know that Stiles was alive. Nevertheless, his first phone call had been to his father, to let him know that he really was alive and well, and confirm that as soon as he could get away, he’d be home for a visit.

It was the second phone call that had him stumped. McCall had passed along the most recent number he had for Scott, but it hadn’t been Scott who had saved Stiles’ life and then covered for him when the crazy ex-fiance of his undercover alter ego showed up at their house. That had been Jackson.

And Stiles had his number too. 

Glancing at the time, and deciding that it was a reasonable time of day to call someone, Stiles scrolled to Jackson’s number and hit send, bringing the phone to his ear. It rang three times and went to voicemail. Stiles debated hanging up, listening to the automated voice mail message, but in the end, decided on, “Hey Jackson, its uh, Mi-Me.” Stiles cleared his throat, “Uh, Stiles. Gonna be weird to get used to calling myself that again. This is my number, my uh, real number. Give me a call sometime when you’re free. I’ll be in Miami for another few months for the trial, so, just uh, give me a call.” Stiles hung up. 

\--

Jackson had been in surgery when the unknown number had called him, but as soon as he’d returned to his phone, he’d clicked over to voicemail and listened to it, smirk growing across his face as he did. He called Stiles back as soon as the message was over. Hearing him answer, but before he could speak, Jackson said, “You could have just texted me, y’know.”

“Dude, do you know how insecure texts are?” Stiles said, and Jackson could hear the smile in his voice. “Old habits die hard. Did I interrupt something when I called earlier?”

Jackson settled back against his office chair, kicking his feet up on the desk, “No, I was just, y’know, doing my job. My phone stays in my office when I’m in the OR.”

“I guess that’s probably a good habit to get into. Answering the phone in the middle of surgery is probably asking for a malpractice lawsuit.” 

“Essentially.” Jackson glanced at the door, “How’s your stomach?” 

“Uh, sore still. Getting gutted with a six inch steak knife will do that to you. I guess I’m lucky? The doctor I saw -- the second one, after I got picked up from your house -- said that my intestines hadn’t been punctured by some miracle, and that the sutures you did were fantastic, so you can use that to feed your ego.”

“I know my sutures are fantastic.” Jackson said, grinning, “But thanks.”

“I think I owe you a date.” Stiles said, and Jackson could hear him tapping at something with his fingers, “But you’ll have to be patient. I still can’t tell you the whole story.”

Jackson’s smile dimmed from the bright, cocky grin to something more intimate, and he stared down at his lap, “I’m a lot more patient than I used to be.”

“Hard to be less patient than you used to be.” 

Jackson laughed, “Glad to hear you’re still a dick. I would have worried the FBI would have broken you of that.” 

“Jax, have you met Scott’s dad? If anything, the FBI turns us into bigger assholes.”

Jax. The name felt odd, nobody had called him a nickname in years. Frankly, Jackson hadn’t let anyone close enough to warrant it in years. He didn’t bother to correct Stiles, though, “Fair.” He glanced at the calendar notification that popped up on his computer, “I have to go, I have a consult.” He hesitated, “I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Sure.” 

“Take care of yourself, Stiles.” 

“You too.” 

Jackson hung up the phone, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and headed out of his office. His colleagues were nice enough not to mention the smile he wore for the rest of the day. 

\--

Jackson made a dedicated attempt to return to some version of his normal life, except everything now hinged inexplicably around his phone calls with Stiles. For two and a half months, they texted most mornings, and spoke on the phone at least once a day, always about menial day-to-day things, but never about the past, never about Stiles’ undercover job, and never about the future. Jackson couldn’t stop thinking about Stiles’ comment in his first voicemail, _I’ll be in Miami for another few months_

What would happen when he left Miami? Would the phone calls stop? Would Jackson’s life return to the monotony of work, studying up on new medical techniques and sleeping with people he met off of dating apps or in clubs? Jackson couldn’t shake how nice it felt -- and how agreeable his wolf was -- to have made what felt like a real connection to Stiles. Jackson’s wolf hadn’t been as content in years, but now, it settled the instant Stiles’ name popped up on his screen. Jackson didn’t know if he was ready to let that kind of inner peace go.

“Dr. Whittemore?” 

Jackson jumped -- god someone had gotten the drop on a werewolf, he was _so fucked_. “Oh, hey, what’s up?” He asked the resident who had knocked on his office door. 

“Someone dropped this off at the front desk for you, I said I’d bring it up.” She stepped into his office, extending a heavy cream envelope his direction.

Jackson took it, thanked her, and waited for her to leave the room before he sat back in his chair, smirking at the scratchy handwriting on the outside of the envelope. _Dr. Jackson Whittemore._ He flicked it open and pulled out the neatly folded note, flicking his eyes to the door before he brought the paper up to his nose. 

The note had the same scratchy handwriting as the envelope. _Thought I’d appeal to your nature with my restaurant choice. We have a table by the water reserved at Smith and Wollensky, Miami Beach, 7pm. I believe I owe you a story._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the one with the smut)

The worst part about being undercover was not actually being undercover, but paperwork and the fact that for nearly three months after the fact, he was effectively in hiding. He had to stay in Miami so he could be there to speak with the US Attorney and answer any questions anyone had on the case. He wasn’t entirely clear on why that sort of thing couldn’t have happened over Skype while he was somewhere tropical. Or, well, somewhere that wasn’t in an FBI safe house.

His phone calls with Jackson, surprisingly, had kept him sane throughout the process. 

Once the trial was underway, and all of the evidence passed to Federov’s defense team, the restrictions were relaxed, but Stiles was still warned not to do anything to draw attention to himself. Federov was in jail, but he still had plenty of associates, and while it wasn’t public knowledge that Agent Stiles Stilinski and Miles Sommerfeld were the same person, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Stiles would be the first to testify once the trial began in the coming weeks, the FBI eager to get Stiles out of the city.

Going out to dinner with Jackson was Stiles’ first time going into public in almost three months, and he was equal parts anxious and excited. If Jackson had been your average person, Stiles probably wouldn’t have risked something like this, but Jackson was a little more durable than average. As far as Stiles knew, if there were wolves in Miami, they kept to themselves, which meant most mobsters didn’t bother carrying guns with wolfsbane bullets. 

Stiles was armed just in case. 

The restaurant patio was decorated in typical Miami style; ostentatious granite tables surrounded by cream wicker chairs that backed up to a wall of rocks that seemed, from the angle Stiles looked down at, to be all that separated them from the ocean. He’d requested one of the more secluded tables, in the far corner, tucked beneath a tree. He fiddled with his phone while he waited for Jackson to arrive. He saw him follow the waitress out onto the patio, and couldn’t help but smile. 

Jackson slid into the chair across from Stiles, “Someone cleaned you up.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “I know this may come as a surprise, but I am capable of dressing myself when the occasion calls for it.” They were both dressed similarly, in button downs and slacks, though Stiles’ sleeves were rolled up to his elbows where Jacksons were still primly buttoned at his wrist. “You look great.”

Jackson smirked, “I always look great.” 

Stiles shook his head, a silent laugh on his lips, “Are you ever going to grow out of that degree of cockiness?”

Jackson shrugged one shoulder and glanced out over the water, “This is nice.” 

Stiles caught his bottom lip between his teeth, “Yeah, well, being on house arrest for the last few months gave me plenty of time to read reviews. This place has an almost $70 steak. I figured, if I was going to feed a werewolf, I might as well go big.” Stiles winked.

Jackson sat back, hands folded in his lap, “You didn’t tell me you were on house arrest.” 

“You never asked.” Stiles said, folding his hands on the table, “I should probably warn you that while I was pretty discreet getting here, and making the reservation, I cannot promise that this is the safest date you’ve ever been on. I’m uh, well as Stiles or Miles, I probably have some enemies in this city.” 

Jackson nodded and casually scanned the patio, “I’ll keep an ear out.” He said. 

The conversation lulled for just a moment as the waitress returned, Stiles happy to let Jackson order them wine and an appetizer, studying the man whose voice had been such a comfort recently. When the waitress was gone, Jackson caught Stiles’ eyes, “You’re staring.”

“If this is a date, aren’t I allowed to stare?” Stiles challenged, cocking an eyebrow.

Jackson mirrored the expression, “I believe you owe me a story.”

As they sipped their wine, Stiles explained the last three years of his life. A few months prior to him actually relocating to Miami, they’d begun circulating his name as someone with ties to crime syndicates in Europe and Asia. Miles Sommerfeld was a charming, up-and-coming business man, spoke fluently in six different languages (as Stiles himself now could) and was a whiz at business negotiations. Once he was in Miami, it was only a matter of catching the eye of Sofia Federov, and once he’d gotten with her (literally) he was in.

Over the last two years, Stiles had been making deals for Sergei with various criminal personalities, some real and some just another FBI agent in disguise, and earning the trust of the Federov patriarch. The FBI had been working with the DEA to make sure their cases were airtight, and three months ago, the day that Sofia Federov had stabbed Stiles, Sergei had gotten wind of an upcoming arrest and was suddenly headed out of the country. The FBI had no choice but to move forward on the arrest that day, leaving Stiles little time to get out of the doomed relationship with his mark. 

“And so, I tried to get her to accept that I wanted to break up with her, but she just kept…” Stiles sighed, swirling the wine at the bottom of his glass. “She’s stubborn. So I told her I was seeing someone else. And she stabbed me, right there at the dinner table.”

“And then assumed the person you’d been seeing was me.” Jackson said, leaning forward, enthralled by the story.

“Yeah, Raf told me about that.” Stiles said, smiling, “Thanks for that. I still think she’s in the dark about me being the mole. It’s probably for the best. She plead to misdemeanor assault for stabbing me, by the way.” 

Jackson frowned, finishing his glass, “And I thought only werewolves got out of being held accountable for their crimes.”

Stiles sat back with a heavy sigh, “Werewolves, kanimas, and people who get possessed.” He couldn’t help slipping back down that road, now that he was here, having dinner with someone who reminded him so strongly of who he used to be. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

Jackson focused on Stiles’ face, “We can pretend like the past didn’t happen until we’ve killed another hundred dollar bottle of wine, but it won’t make it go away.” Jackson licked his lips, “It’s why I became a doctor, so I could help instead of do more harm.”

“It’s why I became an FBI agent.” Stiles said, his voice low, tone serious, “So that I could save people instead of kill them.” 

Jackson reached across the table, and Stiles watched as one of his hands covered Stiles’ clasped hands on the table. “We’re not the people we were back then.”

Stiles nodded, flipping his hands so that both of them had Jackson’s in a gentle grip. He poked at one of Jackson’s fingertips until the werewolf grinned and popped a claw, Stiles smiling delightedly. “I’m going to miss you.” He said after a beat, looking up with somber brown eyes, “It feels like we barely even got to have this and now in a month I’ll be leaving Miami.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Back west. Seattle, or Los Angeles. They’re eager to get me back in the field after three years on this op. It’s just too big of a risk for me to stay in Miami.” 

Jackson twined his fingers with one of Stiles’ hands, “Y’know how we’ve managed to talk for the last two months, but never about the future or the past?” Stiles nodded, and didn’t fight it as Jackson brought his hand up to his lips, the werewolf pressing a kiss to where their fingers had meshed together. “Can we go back to that, just for tonight?” 

Stiles raised an eyebrow, “What did you have in mind?” 

“I was hoping I could get you back to my house, especially since you’re not currently dying of a stab wound.” Jackson spoke with his lips pressed against their joined hands, and Stiles occasionally felt the wolf’s tongue glance across his skin.

Stiles waved at the waitress with his free hand, “Yeah.” He said, grinning, “Let’s do that.” 

\--

Jackson, who knew the best route and wasn’t at the mercy of a GPS fighting Miami’s horribly designed city plan, made it back to his house well ahead of Stiles. He sat in his car in the garage for a long few minutes, wondering if this was going to be a mistake, if sleeping with Stiles was only going to make the attachment worse. A month. There was a deadline now, a flashing red light that meant that their time together was limited. Jackson hated it.

He heard Stiles pull into the driveway, and climbed out of the car, walking through the house to the front door to pull it open just ahead of Stiles’ knock. Jackson motioned for him to come in and locked the door behind him. Now that they were in private, Jackson didn’t have to hesitate before he stepped into Stiles’ space, pressing his nose into the juncture of neck and shoulder and breathing in deeply, enjoying the warm peal of laughter it dragged out of Stiles. 

“How long have you wanted to do that?” Stiles asked, turning around and wrapping his arms around Jackson’s shoulders.

“An embarrassingly long time.” Jackson said, taking advantage of the rearrangement to press his face into Stiles’ throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve not had to resist this.” 

“Is there an alpha down here?” Stiles asked, his chin rubbing in gentle circles against Jackson’s temple, “That’s kind of stupid, there has to be or you’d have gone omega and lost your mind.” 

Jackson breathed in another long pull of Stiles’ scent and then pulled back, shaking his head, “Are you seriously asking me about werewolf shit right now?” 

Stiles shrugged, “Do you have a better idea for a topic of conversation?” He asked, unabashedly staring at Jackson’s mouth.

Well if that wasn’t an invitation….

Jackson pressed their lips together, pleasantly surprised at the small noise it pulled out of Stiles before his arms tightened around Jackson’s shoulders, and then with a smooth motion he pressed the wolf back against the nearest wall. Jackson curled his arms around Stiles’ waist, “The FBI really keeps you in shape.” Jackson’s hands slipped down to grab at Stiles’ ass, tugging their hips together. 

“Did you just compliment me?” Stiles asked, fake incredulity in his voice, “Jackson Whittemore just complimented me.” 

Jackson nudged a leg between Stiles’, opting to shut him up with actions rather than words. Stiles rocked his hips against Jacksons, a never-ending stream of meaningless noises falling from his lips as Jackson pressed his face back into his throat, kissing and biting in equal measure. “Upstairs?” Jackson asked, lips still pressed against Stiles’ throat.

“Yes.” Stiles said, and in a show of strength Jackson had not been expecting, he managed to lift the werewolf off the ground, guiding Jackson’s legs around his waist. Jackson liked being manhandled, but how Stiles had known that was a mystery. Regardless, the action, and subsequent trip up the stairs was enough of a show of strength by the human to leave Jackson achingly hard as Stiles tipped them back onto his bed before lifting up to reach for the button on Jackson’s pants. 

“How long has it been since you’ve been with someone you actually wanted to fuck?” Jackson asked, breathless, eyes roving over Stiles’ exposed torso as the man removed his own shirt. His eyes fell on the scars he knew best, the one on his shoulder from the bullet he’d removed and the other the jagged red scar just above Stiles’ belly button.

Stiles gave Jackson a briefly serious look, “You know the answer to that question, Jax.” Stiles reached for the hem of Jackson’s shirt, ridding the wolf of it before kneeling between Jackson’s spread legs. “It’s been a while since I’ve been with a guy, too, but I’d really like to fuck you, if that’s okay.” 

Jackson cocked an eyebrow, “It better be a lot better than Okay.” He said, grinning, “But god, yes please.” 

Stiles shook his head, leaning back down to recapture Jackson’s lips, “I’ll see what I can do.” He said against them. 

\--

Stiles was a big fan of sex. Sex of all kinds. He was an equal-opportunity sex-er, but he was also glad that Jackson seemed to be as down with bottoming tonight as he was because Stiles hadn’t been fucked since he’d broken up with his first boyfirend after the academy, which was over five years ago now.

Right now he had an incredibly sexy, fit, and willing werewolf and it was blowing parts of Stiles’ mind that he’d forgotten about. His teenage self had been _obsessed_ with what it would have been like to fuck or be fucked by a werewolf, and despite dating Malia, several of the pack had regularly featured in his wet dreams. 

Jackson had not, not until six months ago when he’d run back into him following the shooting. Since then, he’d infiltrated just about every time Stiles had sat down to get off. And the vision of him in Stiles’ head did not do the real thing justice. 

Stiles eagerly stripped Jackson out of his pants and underwear, leaving him naked and spread out on the bed. “God you’re so much hotter than I imagined.”

Jackson laughed, “So I really did feature in your dreams then, huh?” Jackson grabbed for the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs, tugging them down, licking his lips as soon as his eyes fell onto Stiles’ cock.

Stiles grinned, biting a line of hickies into Jackson’s neck, causing the wolf underneath him to growl even as he tilted his head up to display more of his neck to Stiles, “Your wolf is a subby little shit.”

Jackson brought his head back down just enough to catch Stiles’ eyes, “Who says it’s just my wolf.” 

Stiles raised both of his eyebrows at the implication, grinning, “Big bad Jackson Whittemore, actually a giant submissive.” 

“Stiles?” 

“Yes Jax?” 

“Shut the fuck up and fuck me already.”

\--  
Jackson had forgotten how good it could be to fuck someone in-the-know. He didn’t have to hide the growls, his eyes flashing cobalt, or his unending desire to smell and taste Stiles. The human rolled him over, pushing Jackson down onto his stomach, his cock twitching at the display of dominance as Stiles sucked a new line of hickies Jackson focused on _not_ allowing to heal down his back, fingers running teasingly between his cheeks. 

“Lube?” Stiles asked, biting down on the flesh of Jackson’s back, causing the wolf to whine. 

“Top drawer.” 

“Do you want me to use a condom?”

Jackson considered for a minute, “Only if you want one, I’m good with not.” Jackson’s hips rocked into the bed, Jackson groaning at the relief of having some kind of friction against his cock, only to whine as Stiles gripped his hips and tugged them up off the bed, leaving Jackson with his face pressed into the mattress, hips in the air. 

Lube-slicked fingers teased at the edge of his hole, and Jackson pressed himself back, eager to have them inside him, eager to have Stiles’ cock inside him, to be fucked by someone he actually cared about for a change. “Please.” He said, barely audible against the bedcovers.

Stiles obliged him then, and by the time he had two fingers inside him, crooked against his prostate, Jackson was whining endlessly, claws out and gripped into the duvet cover that would be a wreck by the time they were done, fangs descended, eyes burning blue. “Fuck me.” Jackson slurred around his fangs.

Stiles laughed quietly behind Jackson, and Jackson whined as instead of his cock, he pressed a third finger in alongside the first two. “You can wolf out all you want, I’m not going to rush this.” 

“Stiles I’m a werewolf, I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Stiles withdrew his fingers, and Jackson could vaguely hear him spreading lube over his cock, “And I’m sure plenty of your fucks are all too happy to do the bare minimum and then fuck you, but that’s not me, Jackson.”

\--

Something about the power of having a supernatural creature capable of ripping you to shreds willing to submit so completely was driving Stiles wild. Jackson’s clawed hands had torn into the comforter, and him slurring around fangs was significantly hotter than it should. It should have felt dangerous, but for Stiles it felt anything but.

He pressed the head of his cock against Jackson’s hole, biting his lip as the head of it slipped past the tight ring of muscle, Jackson whining his name beneath him. Stiles pressed in slowly, evenly, waiting for Jackson to start canting his hips back, trying to move on Stiles’ cock before he began to fuck him, one hand gripped tightly at Jackson’s hips, the other pressing down between Jackson’s shoulderblades, keeping him pressed face first into the bed.

Between the dinner, the flirting, making out downstairs and the act of actually fucking someone voluntarily for the first time in way too long, Stiles found himself incredibly close incredibly quickly, and moved the hand off of Jackson’s hip to grab at his cock, stroking him in time with his thusts.

Jackson’s cocky commentary had devolved into a litany of half-enunciated sounds that might have made up Stiles’ name and the word fuck, and Stiles felt him tense beneath him, strands of sticky white cum splattering onto the bed beneath him. Stiles buried himself inside the werewolf and came from the sound Jackson made, a choked off growl that eased into a whine and ended in ‘iles.’ 

Once he could think again, he pulled out and collapsed beside Jackson, splaying out and taking up the remainder of the space that wasn’t currently occupied by a puddle of boneless werewolf. “Did I do better than Okay?” Stiles asked, grinning.

Jackson turned his head, and Stiles could see an impression in his skin from the bedcovers, blinking a few times before he smiled, “Definitely.”


	5. Epilogue

Stiles’ last month in Miami was a haze of ridiculous romantic overtures (flowers sent to the hospital, lavish dates at expensive restaurants, breakfast in bed) and mind-blowing sex. They occasionally talked about the past, but never talked about the future. They both knew their time together was limited, and neither brought it up.

It took two weeks from the day that Jackson kissed Stiles goodbye at the departures terminal of Miami International Airport before his departure for Seattle until Jackson sent his first application to the University of Washington Medical Center. He was careful not to mention it in their daily phone calls, or any of the numerous texts they sent back and forth day to day. 

He waited until he’d had the skype interview, and had been all but promised the position to call Stiles and tell him. Stiles had been elated. Jackson put in his notice and called his realtor the same day. After a month of separation, they were back together, tucked happily into the townhouse Stiles was renting in Seattle. 

Sweaty and worn out from reunion sex, Stiles rested against the headboard with a sated Jackson curled in his lap, Jackson’s nose pressed contentedly against Stiles’ throat. “I need to find an alpha before too long.” Jackson murmured, eyes closed.

Stiles hmm’d in response to that, carding a hand through Jackson’s hair, “I uh...know the local alpha.” He said.

Jackson forced his eyes open and leaned back, “How have you already met the local alpha?” 

Stiles smirked, “Technically, you’ve also met the local alpha.” 

Jackson sighed, “Don’t tell me McCall moved to Seattle.” 

Stiles shook his head, “Nah, he’s married to Beacon Hills at this point.” Stiles glanced away, “If you’d rather be a part of Scott’s pack, Beacon Hills isn’t that far away, really.”

“Who is the local alpha, Stiles?”

“Peter Hale.”

\--

Peter Hale was even further down on the list of people Jackson had ever expected to see again than Stiles had been, and yet, there he was, sitting in a coffee shop drinking an overpriced latte, reading from a large, old book. He looked up when Jackson entered the shop, giving him a brief nod before returning to his book while Jackson collected a drink from the barista before joining him. 

Peter placed a bookmark and closed the book once Jackson had settled in, turning keen blue eyes up at him, “Mr. Whittemore.” 

“Dr. Whittemore.” Jackson corrected, smirking, “It’s been a long time, Peter.” 

“You look much better than you did the last time I saw you. Cleaner, more alive.” Peter grinned, “Stiles tells me that he thinks you’d be a good addition to my pack.” Jackson glanced around furtively, but Peter waved a dismissive hand, “Seattle is very open minded when it comes to this sort of thing, you’ll find.” 

“I’m not here to play games, Peter.” Jackson said, sitting forward, “I moved to Seattle for Stiles, Stiles told me he thinks you’re a good choice to be my alpha, and I trust him.”

Peter nodded, studying Jackson’s face, “Well then, I suppose that settles it. I find that it’s gotten very difficult to deny Stiles much of anything these days.” 

Jackson refused to give Peter the satisfaction of seeing the possessive growl that bubbled up inside him. “Join the club.” He grumbled out instead.

“Oh, from my understanding, Jackson, that’s an _incredibly_ exclusive club, and I’m certainly not invited.” Peter smirked and picked up the book, “Welcome to the pack. Stiles can fill you in on when we have meetings, and he can pass along my number as well.”

Jackson sat back and sipped his drink, “Why does Stiles know so much about your pack?” 

Peter glanced up from the book, “Oh. He didn’t tell you.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed, “Didn’t tell me what?” 

“Stiles doesn’t just know about my pack, Jackson. Stiles is pack.” 

\--

Three months after Jackson moved to Seattle, they managed to secure an overlapping weekend off to travel to Beacon Hills for Stiles’ 15 year high school reunion. Stiles originally hadn’t wanted to go, but Jackson reminded him that his old pack would all be there, and they hadn’t seen him in years, and hadn’t seen Jackson in even longer. Jackson, of course, hadn’t graduated from Beacon Hills, so Stiles had RSVP’d with a plus one, and made arrangements to also visit with the now-retired Sheriff while they were in town. 

Noah Stilinski was a formidable man even now, but he softened when he was around his son, something that made Jackson’s heart ache. It was clear that no matter what curveballs Stiles threw at him, Noah loved his son unconditionally, and Jackson envied Stiles that connection. The first hour or so had been tense, but once Stiles had recounted the various times Jackson had saved his life or covered his ass, Noah’s edges had softened in Jackson’s direction too. Jackson had tried not to preen when, by the end of the night, Noah had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “He’s happy, really happy, and I can’t thank you enough for that, son.”

The reunion was held at the High School, however, as an event organized and hosted by Lydia Martin, it was impeccably decorated. Jackson and Stiles were intentionally a few minutes late (more by Jackson’s design than Stiles’, leaving Stiles murmuring something about Jackson being a drama queen) and so naturally, when they entered, Lydia had whipped around from where she’d been chatting with someone to pin them both with fierce green eyes. 

A second later, Jackson had to resist the urge to growl as another werewolf had thoroughly wrapped himself around Stiles, but relaxed as soon as he realized it was just Scott. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.” Scott said, holding Stiles by his shoulders, “How have you been? How’s Seattle?” 

“Scott, you’re skipping the important question.” Lydia said, suddenly appearing in front of them. “Jackson, what are you doing here?” 

“Oh that’s not--” Scott started, but Stiles cut him off.

“He’s with me.” Stiles said, looping an arm around Jackson’s waist and tugging him close with enough force that Jackson had to physically resist the urge to tuck himself into Stiles’ shoulder. “I did RSVP with a plus one.”

Lydia studied them both, “Now this is a story I’ve got to hear.” She said, grinning. 

Stiles grinned back, “Y’know, I’d love to tell you, but it’s literally classified.” 

Jackson rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss Stiles on the cheek. “Now who’s being a drama queen?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts on [Tumblr!](https://those-who-fall.tumblr.com)


End file.
